Once Here, Now Gone
by amcams
Summary: Kurt Hummel has been alone, bearing the burden of the relentless torture called high school. Then, on one of the worst days of his life, he finds help. A... kindred spirit, if you will. AU, Eventual M. Some triggers.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey! This is my first time posting on FF. I've written, but never finished-which is why I'm putting it up. So there's more incentive. I'm really excited about this; it's a fill for the GKM [ http :/ glee-kink-meme (.) livejournal (.) ? thread=19235324#t19235324 ] that I was just immediately drawn to. It's short and tame for now, but I figured more chapters faster than fewer coming at a slower rate. I'll feel like I've done more than I actually have! Yikes. Eventual M. Trigger warnings (character death, depression, mention discussion and contemplation of suicide-not too heavy if I can manage it though, etc.) If you've actually read all of my blathering, two Rachel Berry gold stars for you! You go, Glen Coco. :0)

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><p>Kurt barely has time to squeeze his eyes shut before he's hit full in the face with the screaming cold of a grape slushie. He doesn't cry out, only hunches his shoulders and bows his head, willing it to somehow avoid his white shirt as he hisses out a shaky breath. He slowly wipes it from his eyes as the boy lumbers off, high-fiving his friends. Their loud, booming laughs resonate through Kurt, setting him on edge and making his bones ache. He sighs heavily and turns back to his locker to grab the towel he'd learned to keep stored there, hoping this meant he would be left alone for the rest of the day. He was wrong.<p>

Kurt gasps as he's crowded against the wall with a sudden push between his shoulder blades, throwing out his arms to brace himself, jarring him harshly but keeping his face from making contact with the metal for once. Unbidden, a small whimper slips from his mouth and he knows with a chilling certainty just who that hand belongs to. He turns his head to the side, reluctant to face the dauntingly huge boy behind him, but somehow afraid _not_ to. Karofsky's wide, doughy face suddenly fills his vision, contorted with a look of utter _disgust_, like he can't believe Kurt even dares to exist. His mouth twists with into a smirk, but his eyes are still blazing angry, daring the smaller boy to do something about it.

Kurt stays silent, and the caveman-like form eventually retreats with a dirty look and the word 'fairy' flung at him like a promise of never relenting until Kurt breaks from the weight of it.

This is his every day. He wakes up, makes a tally of the bruises littering his skin while he showers, pulls on his borderline baggy jeans and a crew necked t-shirt and heads downstairs. He'd once loved fashion. He still does, but he'd had to learn to dress to blend in, because his tight pants and asymmetrical seams had gotten him nothing but harder shoves and slushies dumped on his head and down his back. It wasn't worth the struggle. He goes downstairs and grabs his backpack, and is pulled into a too-tight hug by his father before he heads out the door.

He can tell how hard this is for his dad. He _knows_ that he's all but disappeared from the household, hiding out in his room as soon as he comes home every day. It's not that he doesn't love his dad—that isn't it at _all_. It's that he doesn't have the heart—or the courage—to tell his dad what's wrong. Tell him how he's basically tormented every single time he steps foot on campus. Tell him that the people who've set out to destroy him—especially Karofsky—aren't far from succeeding.

He's always quiet on the way to school. He usually brings a book and reads, so Finn doesn't feel awkward at the silence. He isn't even allowed to drive to school right now, because his tires have been slashed three times already and new ones are really expensive. It's just better for him to give up that piece of his freedom so he doesn't have to see the pained look on his dad's face when he has to come and get Kurt from school because he can't drive home. The only thing that brightens his days even a little is glee club, and then it's war-torn with drama and he's stopped fighting for solos, happy to stand in the back inconspicuously and harmonize with whoever Finn seems to be dating this week. He endures Mr. Schuester's worried looks, but brushes them off and is sure to leave before he can be held back to talk.

He's spiraling downwards, almost numb to it all. That is, until everything is thrown into sharp and terrifying relief when one day Kurt finally works up the nerve to make a last effort at being left alone. He convinces his dad that he needed his car for today because Finn was going out on a date with one of the two girls. He's practiced what he wants to say and he finally thinks he just might be able to go through with it. He squares his shoulders, straightens his spine, and finds Karofsky in the boys' locker room. He stands up for himself with everything he has and Karofsky grabs Kurt's face between his huge, clammy palms and takes something from him. Not just his first kiss, but the last lingering feeling that somehow he was above it all. Like if he could just manage to endure it there would be something or someone worth waiting for at the other end of this hell. Now all that's left is the scream he has to stop from rising in his throat, the thud of his shoes on tile and then pavement as he sprints to his car, and the sickening drop of his heart as it finally lets go of whatever small hope it had cradled of anything getting better.


	2. Chapter 2

He drives home with a death grip on the steering wheel and a foot heavy on the gas pedal. He has to narrow his mind to the two tasks of driving and breathing, and even then the latter is becoming increasingly difficult. By some freak, undeserved miracle he makes it home alive, jerking to a stop in his driveway.

He goes inside, climbing the stairs numbly. So overwhelmed it feels like his throat has shut down and he'll never speak again- which freaks him out even more. He's home alone but locks himself in his room just in case—he doesn't want anyone to find him like this—finally letting the tears that he's fought off for so long overtake him. Weak. Pathetic.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, knees bent up against his chest, eyes closed and futilely trying to hold the tears in again, but he hardly notices when it starts. At first he ignores it, what must be a breeze but what feels uncannily like fingers trailing down his arm more gently than he's felt in a long time, just barely there. He can't even look up to see because he's caught in that stage of crying where he's just gasping for breath, tears streaming down his face like they'll never stop. He shakes it off; it's probably because it's been so long since Kurt's let himself cry like this- with his whole body shaking from the force of it, renewed sobs making him almost double over as every other thought is driven from his mind and the memory of his terror sinks into his bones like frostbite.

His brain does that to him sometimes. He gets this kind of tunnel vision where it's like the whole world fades and crackles and curls in around the edges. All he can hear is the persistent rush of blood in his ears and his mind narrows down and loops, putting whatever is troubling him on repeat until it nearly drives him mad.

He screws his eyes shut against it now, scrubbing at his lips with the back of his hand and trying to derail his thoughts, which are still making him shake and grasp for composure as they force him to see the desperation and terror mixed with the confusion and anger in Karofsky's face as he hauls Kurt in with an unnatural strength for something that should be sweet and treasured but instead makes Kurt feel dirty and used and it _just won't stop._

He puts his head between his knees as his breathing starts to shallow, fists clutching at his bedspread. His breath quickens as he rocks back and forth, drowning in it. He just sits there, not getting oxygen enough with his clipped, sharp inhales, thinking himself into a panic attack and soon he can feel his lips and hands start to tingle, like they're numbing.

But then there it is again, that feeling of hands on his arms, and there's no mistaking it for the wind this time because Kurt remembers that his windows are latched shut like they always are during winter. An involuntary shudder passes through him and he abruptly goes still, straining his ears to try and catch what it might be without lifting his head and giving himself away.

His breath stops cold in his chest and his mind grinds into gear, trying to remember where he keeps the baseball bat, because—and here his heart starts to kick into overdrive—someone has to be in the room with him. He can hear the sound of breathing, in and out far too slow and faint to be normal, and now that he knows what to expect he can feel the light, tentative fingers trailing down his arms from shoulder to elbow, barely brushing the fabric of his button-down.

Then, the feeling changes, and it feels like he's being wrapped in something suspiciously like a pair of arms, and pulled against something solid before it's gone, and shifted to just the two places on his biceps.

He starts breathing again only because his head has begun to swim dangerously, his breaths still fast and shallow. He cautiously tips his head up, just barely looking out over the shield of his arms, deciding that as soon as he sees where the person is, he can make a run for the wrench his dad left on his dresser the last time he'd come up here to try and talk to Kurt.

He doesn't see anything.

Spots are flickering before his eyes as he raises his head even more, scanning the room quickly. No one. But he can still hear the breathing and can still _feel_ the hands on his arms. His chest is heaving but he can't, still can't get any air. He unwinds his arms and legs and sits straight on the edge of the bed, eyes darting around nervously.

It's impossible. There had _just_ been someone there! He must have imagined it. Has to be mistaken even though it felt so real, because there isn't another explanation. He gasps another half-breath as something squeezes his upper arms briefly before resuming the slow, gentle path. He looks down, and what he sees makes his eyes widen and stops his breath again.

He can _see_ the fabric giving way and wrinkling exactly as it would if someone were touching it and it matches up exactly to where he thinks he's feeling the touch. He sucks in a breath and jerks away, standing up quickly, his hands flying up to where the phantom contact had just been.

He only realizes his mistake when black slowly begins to bleed in at the edges of his vision and he can feel the blood rushing from his head. He sways on the spot, a ringing in his ears. Even though he's imagining things, he has to give himself credit for detail, because even as his brain is going fuzzy, the hand from his arm is at his lower back, almost like it's holding him up. He blinks dizzily before stumbling back to his bed, his knees buckling and making him drop like a stone. He's out before he even hits the ground, but a pair of unseen hands supports him and guides his limp body onto the bed, where Kurt's breathing finally slows into something more natural.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the horrendous delay, but to make up for it here's a nice long chapter where actual things happen! \o/ woo! I also have the next few updates written already, so I'll be posting once a week until I've got them all up.**

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><p><em>Ow. <em>His first conscious thought is that the pounding at his temples and behind his eyes is definitely not normal. He groans as his head makes a decent effort in splitting itself in two, shifting slightly where he is stretched out on his back.

He raises a hand to massage the spot, but instead of skin, he feels what appears to be a cool washcloth covering his eyes. Slowly gathering it in one hand and lifting it from his face, his eyes blink slowly in the soft light, wincing slightly as his pupils dilate. He doesn't move for a minute, just has to force himself to breathe and remain calm because for all that he wants to brush off what happened and blame it on distress or nerves or whatever he can dredge up, there isn't much denying it.

How else would he explain a washcloth appearing on his forehead? How about the cream-colored knit throw draped over him that was always kept folded in thirds at the foot of his bed? Or the fact that his blinds were _definitely_ drawn shut when he came home and now they're halfway opened, spilling light onto his carpet? His breathing trips up and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment to force his breaths to lengthen and steady. He'll look up, he will. Whoever it is must know he's awake by now, and yet he can't bring himself to rise up those few inches; he never claimed to be a brave person.

However, it seems he doesn't _need_ to do anything. Before he can make up his mind on whether or not to lay there and buy a few more moments or sit up and. .. try to fight or something, he feels his right hand slowly being uncurled from the fist it had been clenched into.

Caught off-guard for the millionth time that day, he offers no resistance, and before he knows it the phantom fingertips are tracing up from the crook of his arm to his wrist. They skate across his palm and slip between his fingers, a cool weight settling onto his hand. At the subtle gesture, his curiosity finally gets the best of him and he breaks his gaze from the ceiling, sitting up and looking to the right.

He lets out a choked-off, hiccupping gasp when he sees his hand, laced innocently with another hand. A pale, almost _transparent_ hand. He immediately snatches his hand back and scrambles backwards, his back pressed tight against his headboard and heart hammering as he tries to blink his eyes clear of what cannot, can _not_ exist. A person—a boy if he's being exact—sitting on his bed, staring at him with wide eyes and clutching his hand as if he'd been burned.

If that in and of itself isn't strange enough—he hasn't had friends over in months—the fact that he can almost see his desk on the other side of his room _through_ the boy. As in he isn't solid. Not solid. Not human. More like smoke, gathered up and formed into a human approximation and dropped on his bed without the slightest rationale or concern for the fact that it can't—isn't—shouldn't be—possible.

After a tense minute where Kurt sits, waiting for the.. thing to do something and it just keeps _staring_ at him—studying him, its gaze never wavering. For his part, Kurt stays completely still, just waiting for the thing to attack him or evaporate or _do something_. He sits until he feels like it will drive him insane—the only sound is his breathing and even that is muted. He sits long enough that the thing would have had more than ample opportunity to attack or escape if it was going to, and he eventually decides that if it won't do anything then he'll have to.

Gathering himself-all the bits and pieces he's frayed into since school that day (_don't think about that don't don't don't not now push it away push it back push it gone_) –he sits straight, folding his legs underneath him and stares the thing square in the eyes. "W-What do you want?" His voice is breathier and a lot more unsteady that he'd hoped, so he tries again. "What. Do. You. Want?" He pushes each word out, trying to force it the small distance between them so it will jar the thing into some kind of action. "Why are you here? What _are_ you?"

The smoke-thing keeps looking at him, eyes wide and lips parted. It would be unnerving how still it remained, but for the fact that its mere presence means that standards have risen significantly. But Kurt waits, the words hanging in the air and demanding a response, until it moves. He doesn't have to wait long, but the reaction isn't what he's expecting. The thing drops its gaze to its hand, still clutched close to its chest, right over where a heart would be in a human. It looks back at Kurt, then slowly releases its hand and lays it between them, palm up. It looks expectantly at Kurt, eyes looking meaningfully at him, his hand, and then its hand, clearly expecting him to get the message.

Disbelievingly—and barely noticing that his fear seems to have melted away—Kurt reaches out and lays his hand on top of the form on the bed, halfway expecting it to pass right through. It doesn't, however, and instead the thing's fingers curl around his own, locking and lifting their hands up. The thing leans closer, as if it's never seen anything like it in its life. Kurt can't blame it; he can't really recall the last time he's held hands with a smoke-thing-almost-boy in his room.

Kurt lowers their hands a fraction so he can look into its face. He squeezes the hand in his grasp and repeats, "Who are you?" The thing has returned to staring at their hands and it takes it a second to look up at Kurt. Then, Kurt's hand is squeezed gently in return and a slow smile spreads across the thing's face. It's almost disarming, and if Kurt hadn't been suppressing his sense of normalcy like it was his _job_, he would think it was a nice smile, but as it is, it barely registers and Kurt can't help but notice he hasn't gotten an answer yet.

It occurs to him that maybe the thing _can't_ speak. It had just seemed so human that he had assumed, but it is entirely possible that this completely impossible thing can't talk. No use leaving up to suspense, so he leans forward yet again. "..Can you.. can you talk?" he asks, unsure. Maybe it can't even understand what he's asking. "Can you understand me?"

The smile on its face turns into a full grin and it nods enthusiastically. Kurt's heart jolts and he's quick to follow up. "Yes? Yes what? Yes you can understand or yes you can talk?" He's aware that he's strangely excited—something out of character for him—but he isn't expecting the thing to throw back its head and laugh.

The sound of it fills up the empty room and he can't help but note how _warm_ it sounds, light and carefree and all-encompassing and Kurt's own mouth curls up the slightest bit at the corners in response.

"So you _can_ talk, then," Kurt concludes, noting with a quick flush of his cheeks that their hands are still entwined. He goes to pull them back and meets resistance, the thing's hand tightening around his own. He looks up from where his gaze has dropped shyly to see the thing's hand over its own mouth as if surprised at the noise it had emitted. The hand slowly drops and it looks at Kurt, nodding purposefully.

"Wow. Okay. Okay good. So you can talk," Kurt thinks out loud, earning him another nod. "So if you can talk, …what's your name?"

The thing looks straight at him, its mouth opening. It looks unsure for a moment, but then speaks.

"Blaine."


End file.
